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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30127050">The Sally Sebald Fund (Entry n°39 of the Versatile Film Department Archive)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatrice_Sank/pseuds/Beatrice_Sank'>Beatrice_Sank</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Because why not assume some of these old movies were in fact shot by the Sebald family, Codes &amp; Ciphers, Conflicting Views on the Purpose of Art, Description of Fictitious Movies, Gen, In-Universe Meta, Movies Archive, Movies shot by VFD, References to Real Movies, Silent Protagonist, VFD History, Worldbuilding, schism, the murder of Olaf's parents is alluded at</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-04-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:40:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,168</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30127050</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatrice_Sank/pseuds/Beatrice_Sank</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Entry n°39 of the Versatile Film Department Archive : a set of 48 reels of film shot by Sally Sebald, covering a period of thirty years (approx.). Most of the production is documentary, and offers precious insights into the history of VFD film-making. Some works of fiction were retrieved (see Item n°5, 8 and 3, partially), but most of them are thought lost (see the concluding remarks). </p><p>Designated archivist : Anatole Svankmajer. Trained in physical bibliography and cinema. Apologies for my handwriting.</p><p>“Unsurprisingly, History and its flow of ashes has done a great disservice to an artist so dedicated to cinema everyone always seems to forget she was, more often than not, the person holding the camera. And though her brother’s work is of course paramount in the realm of coded art, I will only say that to understand where we come from, what we’ve been through and possibly why we are still enduring, as an organization, it is to her movies that we should turn.”<br/>Polly Kale, ‘To Remember Sally Sebald: The Eye of the Beholder’.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Worldbuilding Exchange 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Entry n°39</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brachylagus_fandom/gifts">Brachylagus_fandom</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This relies more heavily on the books, including The Unauthorized Autobiography, in which we meet Sally through her letter to Lemony. But most of it should be compatible with the TV show.</p><p>Several of the entries make use of real movies, or reference real people. I'll add notes at the end of each one with links to the relevant scenes if you're curious, but it's really not necessary to know them to read this.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>Entry n°</b><b>39</b><b> of the Versatile Film Department </b><b>Archive</b><b> :</b> a set of 48 reels of film shot by Sally Sebald, covering a period of thirty years (approx.). Most of the production is documentary, and offers precious insights into the history of VFD film-making. Some works of fiction were retrieved (see Item n°5, 8 and 3, partially), but most of them are thought lost (see the concluding remarks). Except for Item n°1, which couldn’t be precisely dated, they are presented chronologically.</p><p><b>Design</b><b>ated</b><b> archivist </b>: <em>Anatole </em><em>S</em><em>vankmajer. Trained in </em><em>physical bibliography</em><em> and cinema. </em><em>Apologies for my handwriting.</em></p><p><b>Art. 256:</b> The aim of the archive is to provide accurate depictions of the preserved material, and, when possible, to identify the volunteers it features. Those observations should help furthering the existing knowledge on VFD’s history, with an emphasis on its cultural productions. Additionally, they might act as substitutes in the future, given that the archived items are always at risk of being: damaged (accidentally or voluntarily), lost, erased by time, stolen (by a tall woman and a small man, dressed as inspectors from the Coded Culture Department), forgotten, and of course destroyed in a fire. The fire safety instructions can be found on the metal case protecting the reels. The biohazard instructions applying to the reels manufactured in Stain’d-by-the-Sea using the Knight protocol have been added on the relevant cases.</p><p><b>Documents attached to this entry:</b> 1.</p><p>It’s a short extract from a longer article, mimeographed in washed-out blue letters. At the back, someone <em>(who?)</em> scribbled the reference: <em>P</em><em>olly</em><em> K</em><em>ale, ‘To Remember Sally Sebald: The Eye of the Beholder’.</em></p><p>“Unsurprisingly, History and its flow of ashes has done a great disservice to an artist so dedicated to cinema everyone always seems to forget she was, more often than not, the person holding the camera. And though her brother’s work is of course paramount in the realm of coded art, I will only say that to understand where we come from, what we’ve been through and possibly why we are still enduring, as an organization, it is to her movies that we should turn. The specific history they record is perhaps the one we still need to learn, because it is an emotional one. Which is why Sally Sebald was (and perhaps still is) the most important figure in VFD movie-making. And anyone who has eyes, a bit of brains, and at least half a heart should be able to see it.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I tried.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Apologies to Pauline Kael for that terrible wordplay.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Item n°1: Cinema</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>INT. NIGHT (?) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>We open on a square of grayish, grainy light. There is, it seems, nothing to see. Blurred forms float slowly across the watery stillness of the image, in varying shades of dark. From time to time, a patch of black nothingness pierces the view, like a fly crashing into a windowpane.</p><p>And then, the first miracle occurs. Gradually, as we observe them, the incomprehensible shadows begin to compose a more substantial figure. After a moment the image comes into focus, some of the light rearranging itself into the lines of a face. Eyes meet ours.</p><p>There she is.</p><p>And it’s not, by any mean, a remarkable face. In fact, it would be discrete, almost forgettable, if not for its large, dark eyes: almond-shaped, quietly attentive, curious. The woman with the almond eyes purses her lips as if she was not totally satisfied, and the light catches the sharp line of her jaw. Pushing her bangs aside, she tilts her head and reaches further, presumably to fiddle with dials, until the image becomes clearer and we can see beyond her, into a dark cabin.</p><p>The left side of the frame reveals, in the foreground, a table on which are disposed various instruments: sewing scissors, a pot of oil, a pot of pine tar, a candle and some matches, a bell, a screwdriver, a thick folder on which one can make out the word ‘Script’. Behind it, a large glass panel looks out onto a hall of curtains and seats, fading into the shadows.</p><p>On the right side sits a massive projector, asleep in the dark like an archaic monster, its huge metal wheels silently glistening.</p><p>The woman moves to work on it, turning her back to us. We thus have a moment to study the way she has arranged her hair, an old-fashioned bun more labyrinthine than Ariadne’s thread. Her gray skirt, on the other hand, is so long that its hem is cut out of the frame. Meanwhile, behind the glass panel, distant silhouettes move between rows, looking for the best place to seat or waving at other silhouettes waiting in the side alleys. They are not making a sound. This is a silent movie.</p><p>We observe as the woman turns the projector’s crank handle, presses a few buttons on the control panel that lights up behind the wheel. She’s careful, but determined: the second miracle is coming. Suddenly, in the back of the grayish square of the shot, behind the glass panel, another square of light opens. The projector’s wheel starts to turn. There is a screen, now visible above the rows of seats, made of light and stretched fabric, blazing as if the wildest, strangest fire was secretly burning behind it. Heads look up. It’s the most beautiful thing in the world.</p><p>In the hall, the audience inhales sharply, and lets out a collective murmur of awe. And just like that, we are not in a silent movie anymore.</p><p>The woman checks the reels of film, counts them and, seemingly satisfied, turns back to us. In the distance, we hear the sounds of the movie being projected: crumpled paper, the ringing of a bell. Slowly, she takes a few steps forward until the lighted screen disappears from view, obscured by her chest, her shoulders, and then only by her face, filling the entire frame.</p><p>She looks at us in the eyes, welcoming us, and smiles at the camera, like there is nowhere else she would rather be.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>CUT.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Item n°2: Bell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>INT. DAY</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A small white plaque on the wall we are facing bears the word ‘Auditorium’. The camera is standing in a corner and directed toward a stage framed by dusty velvet curtains. A large white sheet has been hung to serve as background: it shows a painted blue sky, dubious olive trees and towers leaning at alarming angles – the general effect is vaguely Italian.</p><p>In the center of the stage, standing between a cardboard moon and a potted rosebush, two actors in the middle of a scene. One is Catherine Snicket, precariously perched at the top of a stepladder and obviously not helped in her endeavor by a costume so loaded with frills and tulle that she seems on the verge of being pulled down by its weight. The other, arms stretched out in an ambiguous gesture – he could be declaiming or anticipating her fall –, is Olaf Bukowski, better known in our archives under the name ‘Count Olaf’. Both of them look no older than fifteen.</p><p>“Cut!” shouts someone off screen. “Cut, cut, cut!”</p><p>The camera shifts to the side to show a ten-years old Gustav Sebald jumping in frustration on a stool as he yells into what appears to be a bundle of old <em>Daily Punctillio</em> issues rolled to form a loud-hailer. He’s wearing equitation boots, and a fake mustache has been drawn in pencil above his upper lip. He fumes:</p><p>“What was that about? You know, your detention could have been something a lot worse than starring in the future greatest movie of all time, after they caught you sneaking out of the dormitories like that. In fact you’re lucky we were all out of actors! So would you concentrate and stop changing the lines, or the audience won’t understand a thing about what they’re seeing!”</p><p>At that, Olaf rolls his eyes in annoyance, and pushes his paper-made ruffle away from his face.</p><p>“Look boy, you’re cute and everything, but this is the worst set I’ve ever seen, and believe me, I’ve seen some things in my life. Now if you don’t mind…”</p><p>To her partner's apparent relief, he moves to help her down the ladder. Unexpectedly, the camera closes in on him as he does, allowing us to see him discretely slip a note in the numerous folds of her dress. If Kit presses his hand for a second too long, Gustav doesn’t seem to notice, lost in the frantic consultation of a thick wad of paper. Turning to him, she says casually:</p><p>“I have to say, I was never very convinced by the whole ‘filmed theater’ approach. Don’t you think it will look a little stuffy? Maybe we could at least modernize?”</p><p>But Gustav isn’t listening to her. Instead he seems to remember the presence of the camera and asks it:</p><p>“Could you check the script, please? Because, no matter what they say, I’m pretty sure that last line was ‘<em>Deny thy father and refuse thy name. </em><em>Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my </em><em>apprentice</em><em>’</em>, and not <em>‘Remember </em><em>that books on mushrooms are not </em><em>filed</em><em> in the botanic section anymore but in the new fungi section, under the fourth secrete trapdoor of the library’s third authorized floor, just behind </em><em>the shelf </em><em>with</em><em> those huge dictionaries about the different types of caviar’</em>. I suppose you didn’t write that, did you?”</p><p>In the background, Olaf and Kit exchange a meaningful look.</p><p>“Say, erm, kid,” Olaf begins, trying to look older than he is, “don’t you think it’s maybe not the best idea to change one random word at a time in a text like this? I mean, do you really expect people to know the damned thing by heart? Who reads Shakespeare, besides old Canadian duchesses and teachers?”</p><p>At which point, the camera chooses to focus on Kit, whose expression clearly tells she’s read Shakespeare a good number of times, but will not comment now because her dress is threatening to swallow her up.</p><p>“More importantly,” he continues, smirking a bit “shouldn’t we wrap up? It’s almost time for our Puzzles and Knots class, and I would sure <em>hate</em> to be late.”</p><p>The frame moves away from the stage to zoom in on Gustav, who’s stepped down his stool and whose fake mustache looks like it’s drooping now, and maybe trembling a bit.</p><p>Kit’s voice hurriedly adds:</p><p>“You know, I think what you need for this is some sort of signal, that would tell people to pay attention to specific words. Something to make them look for code, like… I don’t know…”</p><p>Here, the camera strangely looses focus. It goes from Gustav to Kit, to Olaf who’s already walked off the stage and is ridding himself of his costume, then turns to the audience part of the room and the rows of empty chairs, swiftly passes over the educational posters on the wall before finding the clock, right above the Auditorium’s door. The hands are pointing to 16:59. The camera seems to ponder for a minute.</p><p>And then it’s five, and a bell rings. It’s the sort of bell used only in schools, shrill and insistent, meant to make running late truly inexcusable. Slowly, the angle lowers until, high above the clock, we can see the bell shivering under the metal needle that connects it to the electric system. We wait for it to stop ringing. Then, the frame slowly comes down until we’re back at a normal angle, and we find three pairs of eyes staring at the camera in wonder.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>CUT.</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We don't know Olaf's last name: I chose Bukowski because I wanted a Polish name and it's one of the families holding the title of count in Poland - and also because of the writer, who really sounds like an Olaf counterpart in his own right.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Item n°3: Colors</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>EXT. DAY</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A patch of blue sky, the color a bit washed out. The angle slowly shifts down until several trees enter the frame: we can recognize the famous orchards of the Academy, the ones from which the current specimens of the Submarine Botanical Garden were grafted. In the background, a handmade sign post holding various arrows under which one can read: “Laboratory – Beasts”, “Dairy – Cows”, “Laboratory – Plants”, “Music Rooms”, “Laboratory – Ideas”, “Lavatories”, “Dormitories” (here a red graffiti about co-education), “Room of Inventions”, “Room of Fabrics”, “Tea Room”, “Hall of Sculptures”, “Room of Etchings”, “Hall of Fame”, “Hall of Remembrance”, “Escape Room”, “Locked Room”, “Fire Room”. On top of the sign, a small ball of wood, painted green, around which round characters form the word “L I B R A R Y”.</p><p> </p><p>The camera shifts again. It isn’t completely steady, conveying the idea that it is perhaps a bit heavy for the person who is carrying it around.</p><p>As the frame adjusts, we discover two figures sitting on a tree trunk. One is holding a palette and is very carefully applying silver paint of the other’s face. She’s wearing an elegantly cut brown suit, and her light brown hair is coiffed with a scarf. It is Vanessa Stephen, the famous artist, who brought us the Semi-Abstract Aisle of the Maddin Museum in Winnipeg. Her hand is extremely steady as she presses delicate touches to the side of her subject’s nose.</p><p>“Don’t move, Bell,” she commands gracefully.</p><p>“This isn’t right,’ says the second person, thought to be Bell Watkins, philosopher.</p><p>“I swear this is exactly capturing the light the way…”</p><p>“It’s not what I meant. This is pointless, this is disturbing, there’s a three inches layer of acrylic on my face at the moment, I don’t understand what it’s there for and I can’t feel my skin. Why are we doing this?”</p><p>“Gustav says we need the contrast. He wants it to look like an old movie, call it artist’s vision. Herbert and Giles have been painting cardboard black and white all morning. Apparently you will have to hold objects in a certain order, and those will be in color. It’s an experimentation on code, don’t ask me, I wasn’t allowed in the writers’ room.”</p><p>“Then why don’t we film in black and white and color props afterward, for Stein’s sake? This boy never had an ounce of practicality, it’s no wonder they won’t let him add Film Code to the curriculum. I’d tell you how fine a line there is between innovation and exploitation but right now I’m too concerned I’ll swallow a mouthful of chemicals for my troubles!”</p><p>Bell turns around in agitation to stare at the tip of the brush, as Vanessa shrugs apologetically. We can then see that her face is only half silver, the product having left long, pale streaks stretching across her dark cheek, as if phantom fingers had tried to scratch her face. The sight is eerie and disturbing like an historical mistake. In the same movement, she notices the camera.</p><p>“Ah! It’s you. Well why aren’t <em>you</em> in charge of this? I’d rather work under your direction, honestly. And not, you know, be here because my last essay was found <em>controversial</em>.”</p><p>After a pause, she asks:</p><p>“You’re shooting this in color, right?”</p><p>The camera nods.</p><p>“I’m glad,” Bell says, “for give it twenty years, our children will laugh at us when they watch this. Or maybe be ashamed. I mean, that color palette Sal, please tell me you see it too. What are we coding here, exactly? If we’re sacrificing the images, everything, to cyphers, I disagree. But Gustav won’t listen to anyone. So maybe you try. Never hurts to be more vocal.”</p><p>Here the frame gets a bit out of focus, faltering under Bell Watkins’s inquisitive stare.</p><p>Eventually, it turns to Vanessa, who’s watching the tints on her brush with a doubtful look.</p><p>“I sort of see what she means, this isn’t the right tone. But they won’t give me anything else. By the way, could you tell your brother I’m almost out of paint? If anyone gets too hot under those spots and begins to melt, there will be nothing I can do for him.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>CUT.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Another reel has been manually attached to the first one: the technique used is rather rudimentary, the end of the roll being directly glued to the next with what, from smell, appears to be pine tar.</em>
</p><p>The scene is filmed with a large angle: on the edge of a clearing, black and white boards have been arranged to form a symbolic set, decorated with geometrical shapes. In front of it stands a silver woman. After a moment of puzzled <em>déjà-vu</em>, a term which here means we literally saw this image in the previous reel, we recognize Bell Watkins, under layers and layers of paint. She looks like those professional statues along the rivers of the beautiful capitals of the world, those who are sometimes artists and monuments of patience, and sometimes enemies in disguise ready to hit the back of your head with a freshly fished salmon. She also looks rather miserable, not unlike a good number of those statues.</p><p>Various technicians are running around the set, bent in half, to give her props that she holds in the theoretical direction of the main camera, one after the other. Those items are, in order:</p><p>- one red Teapot</p><p>- one yellow Apple</p><p>- one red Target</p><p>- one purple Tambourine</p><p>- one red Orange</p><p>- one yellow Ocarina</p><p>The camera then zooms in on Watkins’s face, as if to try and capture something there. For a second we see the weariness in her eyes, and then something flickers and a spot of brown, smooth and bright under the heavy shades of silver, appears on her cheek. She blinks, frowns. Another spot blossoms, this time on her forehead, and as she raises her hand to touch it, someone in the background cries:</p><p>“Rain! Rain”</p><p>A great agitation follows that warning, and various shouts (‘cut!’) and thumps echo from everywhere but we see nothing of it: the camera stays focused on Watkins, whose mask progressively decomposes in iridescent rivers as she smiles a lopsided, ironic smile to the sky, and opens her hands, dropping the ocarina to the ground. Her eyes find the other camera, our camera, and she raises her brows in a way that seems to hint at the futility of unsituated knowledge. For a moment, she holds the gaze of the lens. Then we hear:</p><p>“For heaven’s sake, get out the way, you’ll damage the equipment!” and the image suddenly disappears.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>CUT.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>No references to actual movies here, but instead to real people. Because I suppose I get to form my own pool of volunteers.<br/>Vanessa Stephen is better known as <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vanessa_Bell">Vanessa Bell</a>, Virginia Woolf's sister, and a great painter.<br/>Bell Watkins is inspired by Gloria Watkins, a.k.a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bell_hooks">bell hooks</a>, author and activist, who wrote among other things about cinema in <i>Reel to Real</i> and <i>Black Looks: Race and Representation</i>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Item n°4: Montage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>EXT. DAY</em>
</p><p> </p><p>An explosion of movement all over the frame, people crawling like ants everywhere the eye can see, running down the gigantic staircase that eats up the space in mad fear, screaming for their life and falling to their death. We could be anywhere in the world, in any of the major cities of the globe where people have patience and build such stairs on minimum wage before hurtling them down on their knees in the hope of a revolution. Anywhere at all and yet, it also looks like the Stern Staircase, a stone’s throw away from the Mulctuary Money Management, if you wanted your stone to land either in the Fountain of Victorious Finance or to fly through one of the bank’s numerous and expensive windows.</p><p>The camera has never been so frantic: it angles on an old woman’s face, follows her as she falls to the ground, then zooms out to the crowd, and suddenly the swarm of people seems to only have one mind, one body, until we find another face, a young man with round spectacles that looks like Jacques Snicket, a child who could be a Widdershins, perhaps a glimpse of Terrence Vance, the famous cursed writer, perhaps the back of Francis Firth, the painter, but it’s hard to be certain. Everyone seems important, only for the glimpse of a second, and then they are swallowed again by the image until the sea of bodies, moving like the tide, resumes its course.</p><p>It is hard to notice, but you’ll see it on re-watch: some of those people have large numbers painted on their shirt. Those ones all either get shot at some point, or turn back briefly as they run to look at the camera. There is a rhythm to it. But it is as if the camera is afraid to look back.</p><p>As we track forwards at the highest angle, in a vertiginous and majestic movement, ready to roll down with the crowd, someone off-screen shouts:</p><p>“Sally, what are you doing? How do you expect anyone to understand the code if you film this upside down?”</p><p>Slowly, reluctantly, the camera steps back and settles at a normal angle, while the extras begin to pick themselves up, rubbing their neck and muttering about their aching back.</p><p>“Alright, that’s it, I’ve seen enough,” a bored voice declares somewhere in the vicinity of the frame, and we turn to the side to discover a young Esmé Squalor, leaning stylishly on the gate overlooking the stairs. She’s wearing a headscarf, cat eye sunglasses and is pretending to smoke what appears to be a fake cigarette at the end of a long holder (which is just as well since it seems barely legal for her to do so).</p><p>“You see, Gustav,” she says dismissively, “this whole riot thing is all very well, but it’s boringly long. I know we need to discourage potential enemies from attending our screenings, but God, your code breakers will be dead asleep by the end of the first five minutes.”</p><p>Pushing the camera aside as she moves to stand in front of it, still addressing someone we cannot see, she continues with large gestures:</p><p>“You need to make them care. I don’t know, make them laugh. Tell them there’s a bomb under the fountain that will detonate in three minutes. Give them more guns, redo the costumes – hell, those costumes. Make the children tap dance, I don’t know, it’s show business baby! If you really want to sell a message, you’d better make it an attractive one – like me. So you need people to pay attention to those numbers, right? You want to make them count the dead, fantastic, fine, fun even: let me tell you, I love the way you think, darling. But they’re poor, Gustav! Hard-working masses, I mean nobody cares if they fall like flies, as long as it’s not in <em>their </em>vichyssoise. Your numbered shirts, make them special, make them characters: right now they are no heroes, whatever you or your script girl say.”</p><p>With that, she spins around swiftly to point an accusing finger at the camera:</p><p>“I see you, girl! And I never said you could continue to shoot – I rarely ever does, when I’m not the one shooting. You wanted a consultant, you got yourself one, the best one, so let me spin this if you want the spark, and let me ask you: have you been good to your brother?”</p><p>She winks at the camera as it begins to shake with anger.</p><p>“I don’t mean to be dramatic, but people will start dying for real if no one can understand what you’re filming. That would be such a shame.”</p><p>Smiling, she rummages into her handbag and takes out a pair of glistening silver scissors that look fearfully sharp.</p><p>“Here’s my one advice, Gustav: cut the damned thing, cut it. It’ll be cutting-edge and fast, get rid of the extras and show me those numbered shirts from up close, preferably shirtless. That’s how you make an impression, trust me: I know. You have to cut the fat if you want to go mass-market, cut deep and mix it with a splash of blood, sweat and tears, cut yourself a nice benefit and influence the masses. Are you taking notes, girl?”</p><p>She probably isn’t, for the camera is busy zooming in on the scissors and the way they’re catching the light.</p><p>“Oh, I know what would focus the attention tremendously – and no, I’m not appearing in your film, you don’t have the budget I’m afraid.”</p><p>A flutter of expensive fabric as Esmé turns away to yell:</p><p>“Bea! Come over here for a minute, will you, darling? The art’s calling!”</p><p>After a minute, we see an old-fashioned baby carriage slowly entering the frame, all lace and ribbons, but the person who pushes it remains off-screen.</p><p>“How would you like that baby of yours to become a star? It doesn’t have motion-sickness, now, does it?”</p><p>And while Esmé explains how it would be <em>in</em> if there was something to give more tempo to the scene, something like a baby carriage slowly, very safely falling down the numerous steps, the camera moves over the carriage quietly until we can see, under many blankets, a small infant, in deep slumber.</p><p>“Esmé, I’m not sending my first-born down those stairs so that your movie gets more interesting, thank you.”</p><p>The voice is rich, its nuances oddly comforting even in the midst of heavy irony. The baby stirs in its bed. Very tentatively, a hand enters the frame, as the camera shifts slightly, probably being balanced on a shoulder. One slender finger goes to brush aside a black curl on the baby’s forehead, delicately. The image is very still, very quiet. And as the hand begins to retract, the baby’s fit suddenly opens and grabs its index, holding it for dear life.</p><p>In the background, the conversation has become agitated, but it’s a bit lost on us. The baby isn’t letting go.</p><p>“Step back slowly and put those scissors away.”</p><p>“But think of Gustav’s career, honey! At this rate, he will only be able to sell those movies to <em>suburb</em> theaters! It only needs a small push...”</p><p>A great commotion follows, as if many people were rushing toward the top of the stairs in alarm, but very soon we hear Gustav shouts “That’s alright, that’s fine, Sally’s got it!”</p><p>And, as the camera quietly zooms in on the baby’s face as it goes back to sleep, it becomes apparent that indeed, Sally does.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>CUT.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A famous one: the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ucfzkOvUGqs&amp;t=311s">Odessa Steps sequence in Battleship Potemkin</a>.<br/>Some of the extras can be identified as real artists (disguised under their mother's name, more often than not):  Terrence (Vance) Gilliam, who was inspired by this scene for his movie Brazil (more of a cursed film-maker than a cursed writer, I know), and Francis (Firth) Bacon, actually a painter this time, just loved chaos too, I suppose.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Item n°5: Allegory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Two reels of film, labeled “The Cabbage Fairy”, date unreadable. Within one of the cases, a press article that appears to have been cut from the Daily Punctilio’s theatrical column. Its content is reproduced below the description of the movie. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>EXT. (?) DAY</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The fixed image of a garden. This camera is likely set on a tripod, for there is a stillness here that was absent from the other pieces and indicates the woman with the almond eyes isn’t holding it this time. Instead, she is standing in the center of the frame, dressed in a gauze costume sewed with soft roses. There are flowers in her hair, garlands of leaves on the gate that delimits the background (and is it a backdrop after all, or are we really outside, and if so where?). This would be lovely and merry if it wasn’t all gray, and the woman bows to us wisely because she knows, somehow, that all of this will end up in black and white on the film no matter how complex the colors of the garden. Fairies have such privileges: they know how the story end. One image replaces the other, and out of thin air, a wand appears in her hands.</p><p>Around her, in the grass, huge cutouts of cabbages have sprouted up, painted with an impressive level of details. She starts to dance between them, apparently delighted, but after a moment something seems to capture her attention. She leans forward to examine one of the vegetables. Suddenly, her face lights up, her hand reaching for the center of the fake cabbage, and from it she picks a baby, holding it by its ankle like a ripe bunch of carrots.</p><p>It is crying, and we see on its ankle the angry red mark of an eye-shaped tattoo. The fairy makes a show of examining it and frowns, before taking the baby in her arms and kissing it on the nose, which stops the crying immediately. She then deposits it on a bed of flowers, and turns to another cabbage, inside which she discovers a second crying baby. Its ankle, this time, is bare, but she kisses it all the same, until it can be made happy again and join the first one among the daffodils. Cabbage after cabbage, the dance continues: it is graceful and strange, loving and melancholic all at once. Each time, a new baby is born: some have tattooed ankle, some do not. In a few occasions, the fairy tries, with her thumb, to rub the sore spot where the mark has been made, which sometimes makes the tattoo run as a pencil drawing, and sometimes not.</p><p>Eventually the garden is harvested, and no one is crying anymore. The numerous babies (and where did they find so many of them?) are rolling on the grass, pushing each other enthusiastically and making the cardboard props fall down left and right. The fairy dances. She doesn’t seem to mind.</p><p>It’s a very short film, no more than a minute and a half, but I wish it wasn’t silent. As it is, everything is quiet, and you can’t tell the difference between peace and pain.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>CUT.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“<b>Sally Sebald, The Images Fairy”</b></p><p><span><span>by Minny Klose</span></span>ć<span><span>et</span></span></p><p> </p><p>"Considered the first work of fiction of a complex and prolific career, Sally Sebald’s <em>The Cabbage Fairy</em> was shot during the early days of the Schism, something that should be immediately clear to its viewers. ‘Are we chosen? Or do we volunteer into this world?’ seem to be the main, arduous questions of this allegorical movie, although I’m sure this view will be immediately challenged as soon as those lines are printed. As always, readers are encourage to propose divergent interpretations – but I urge them to stop sending angry letters to the editor asking for my column to be removed and my identity to be exposed.</p><p>What enticed Sebald to this format is unclear. She embraced film-making as a full time occupation in a period marked by unprecedented unrest and dissent, and her earlier documentary work contains as many moments of grace as her later fictions. If your local library happens to have a reel or two in stock, I urge you to check them out: you will not find a better testimony of the developing history of Versatile Film.</p><p>At the time – and perhaps regrettably, if I’m allowed an opinion – she lived under the creative thumb of her brother, whose name history has chosen to remember. And it should be remarked that, like many of her later movies, this was the first VFD production to ever receive positive reviews outside of the circle of happy few trained to look at a movie in search of a message superseding the medium. I don’t mean to debase Gustav Sebald’s contribution to our complex history: Sally herself used to say he was probably the most important filmmaker of his generation, and his work no doubt saved many lives and sent out countless useful warnings. But Sally’s own work contains warnings of their own, and I think she was selling herself short.</p><p>As surprising as it may sound to the experienced volunteer, this short is not, in fact, considered a coded movie. Though various exegetes have racked their brain over this specific cipher, it could not be convincingly established (see J. Snicket, <em>Codes and Nodes</em> n°48, Spring) that it used any sort of color code, time code, word code, nor indeed any Sebald code. The techniques it relies on (it is after all a black-and-white, silent movie, and an authentic one at that) depart from the style of movies that was then produced under the Sebald name: most notably, editing is not used here to direct the viewer’s attention (with more or less authority), but merely to enchant.</p><p>And having known Sally myself, I don’t doubt it was her full intention to leave us with a mystery on our hands, and maybe a flicker of awe in our eyes. After all, look at that cardboard garden. It offers you the secret of life in a single cabbage. There is magic at work here, from one image to the next: blink and you’ll miss it, as most missed that peculiar light in Sally’s eyes, the glimmer of thought that so readily deserted our best minds as soon as the word ‘schism’ entered their vocabulary. My advice to anyone who wishes to learn about our tragic history is to watch this movie. Don’t look for answers, or for a keyhole that fits your inherited key. Just look. Look at Sally, dancing as she fishes one baby after the other, wonderful and flammable and entirely unknowable, for this garden doesn’t exist anywhere now, does it? And resign yourself not to decipher the images, but for once to have to feel and interpret them on your own.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A more obscure movie this time: this was modeled (with major additions!) on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CYbQO6pwuNs">The Cabbage Fairy</a>, by French film-maker <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alice_Guy-Blach%C3%A9">Alice Guy</a>. This version was made in 1900, and is often considered the first work of fiction in cinema. It's only a minute long and I love it dearly.<br/>Actually, <a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/d4/Alice_Guy.jpg/800px-Alice_Guy.jpg">Alice Guy's face</a> also served as an inspiration for Sally, if you're curious.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Item n°6: Chemistry</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <b>INT. DAY</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A white plastic table, upon which various specimens of potted plants are disposed, seemingly for examination. We are in a glasshouse, perhaps – the angle too high for it to be clear, but the abundant light makes it likely. There are two persons standing by the table, one on each side, and we can see their hands moving as they speak, but the camera seems more interested in the plants, for now. The hands point out, raise objections, open in earnestness, or rest flat on the plastic, biding their time, but we are looking at flowers.</p><p>First, a rose, blue as the shadows under a writer’s eyes as she works, night after night, on a manuscript that should change everything, save everyone, but won’t be completed in time. There is a small label attached to the stem; it reads ‘Baudelaire Blush’. Next to it, inside a transparent jar filled with clear water, the smallest breed of orchid ever seen crawls timidly out of its pedestal of moss, butter yellow buds hanging like fresh fruits. This one, the tag informs us in sharp, purple letters, is called ‘Sophie’s Choice’.</p><p>But an important question is asked by the hands on the right side of the frame, and the camera reluctantly steps back, angling on a twenty or so Gustav Sebald.</p><p>“Are you quite sure, Ms Knight?”</p><p>We move to the right, to a tall woman who could be in her forties: she’s wearing a stylish black suit and a black beret that clashes with the white blond tint of her hair. Her gestures are sharp, confident.</p><p>“Oh yes, we’ve been experimenting on this formula for years. At Ink Inc., we specialize in everything invisible – but you’ve heard it all before, haven’t you? I’ve contracted with your bosses numerous times – your board of directors, whatever you call it. And with the others too.”</p><p>“The others, Ms Knight?”</p><p>The camera doesn’t leave the blond woman’s face. Intelligence mingles there with something more rigid, like disillusionment. She raises an unconcerned eyebrow.</p><p>“Well, you know. There is you and there are the others, or so I’m told, but you always ask for the same products anyway. Through the years, it’s been hard for me to see a difference: a contract is a contract. Our town is quite secluded, you understand.”</p><p>Gustav nods, but we see plain as day that he probably doesn’t, or doesn’t want to try. He only sighs and says:</p><p>“So, you’re telling me this will work?”</p><p>The blond woman smiles, and in her eyes the pleasure of discovery ignites for a brief second.</p><p>“Quite.”</p><p>She places a small black case on the white table, opens it efficiently and takes out two items: a reel of transparent material, and a box of matches.</p><p>“Look,” she says.</p><p>As she uncoils the reel for it to catch the light, it becomes apparent that we are looking at blank film, small vignettes of emptiness.</p><p>“Invisible,” she comments with a satisfied smirk. “And then…”</p><p>Carefully, she strikes a match. We hear a shocked intake of breathe on the camera’s side, before it zooms on it with a sense of utter urgency. Soon enough, the flame takes up the entirety of the frame. We see it curve and twist as it approaches the film, closer and closer until it grabs a corner and starts to consume it.</p><p>“...see what we observe.”</p><p>The film blackens, its borders begin to melt, and the camera trembles, trembles with more force than when it is just too heavy to carry and to move around. And then, almost immediately, the fire recedes and forms begin to appear on the film’s surface. After a second or two, they solidify into recognizable negatives, the color of caramel.</p><p>This time the intake of breathe comes from Gustav’s side.</p><p>“So it’s fire-resistant?” he asks in excitement.</p><p>“Oh, absolutely. I’d even say it’s fire-<em>dependent</em>: the images shot reveal at 451 Fahrenheit.”</p><p>There is tenderness in the way the camera considers Gustav’s face, as it addresses it directly, voice full of hope:</p><p>“Can you imagine? We will never loose a reel again. No one would manage to destroy our messages! All of this won’t have been in vain, and we will be remembered. My movies and yours, Sally. And that’s another layer of code too, safer than anything we’ve ever tried!”</p><p>But tenderness morphs into horror, as in the distance the woman is heard saying ‘Well, are you buying?’. We see Gustav’s expression slowly changing to puzzlement, and he looks at us and then beyond us, at something we cannot see.</p><p>“What,” he asks, suddenly concerned. “What’s the matter?”</p><p>With slow determination, the camera turns away from him, and glides over the room until the table and the plants are visible again. The image gains focus. And we see that, next to the steaming film, the flowers have wilted and lost all of their leaves.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>CUT.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Cleo Knight appears in <i>All the Wrong Questions</i>, where she's one of Lemony's temporary associates: she's described as 'a brilliant young chemist' and specializes in invisible ink.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Item n°7: Translation (lost in)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>INT. DAY</em>
</p><p> </p><p>We open on a bedroom. It is not, by any mean, a large room, but it’s a space that has been deeply marked by its inhabitant’s presence. For a few seconds, the camera films the powder blue wallpaper and the black and white pictures that cover it almost entirely: photographs of Helen Kane or Marion Davies stand alongside various movie posters, from <em>Bride of the Monster</em> to <em>The Littlest Elf</em>. The room seems cozy and loved, although we only see one side of it. With some effort, we are lifted and then carefully placed on an elevated surface – a shelf, maybe. Someone walks around the camera and adjusts the frame until it’s filming the surface of a wooden desk at a very low angle. Spots of blue and purple ink ingrained in the wood inform us that the desk is regularly used, but no trinkets or personal items are in sight – except for a pair of traditional eye-shaped earrings, perfectly round and blue, that have apparently been forgotten in a corner.</p><p>Two hands, small and swift, enter the frame. They present us with a band of lilac paper along with a pot of ink and a metal quill, and slowly begin to write, in tall, delicate letters:</p><p>“SEBALD DISTRIBUTION ABROAD: YEARLY REPORT”</p><p> </p><p>The hands then produce a first document, a typed note bearing the Winnipeg coat of arms, and place it at the exact center of the frame, to make sure it is readable.</p><p>“REGARDING CODED MOVIES IN FRANCE, TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN (I suppose that means you, Sally),</p><p>During my last trip to Paris, I had the curiosity to explore the Quartier Latin and its small theaters. Imagine my surprise when I found that <em>Greed</em>, one of Gustav’s classics, was being advertised in several of them! Naturally, I bought a ticket in order to investigate the matter, and my puzzlement only grew when I found the theater packed with enthusiastic viewers. I reassured myself by thinking they would soon change their mind after the first few minutes, but the movie began, the minutes passed, and no one seemed to be running for the door. I waited and waited, as long as could bear, to see if anyone was there to decode anything, but people were only whispering appreciative comments to one another, and the only person I spotted taking notes was a journalist apparently busy writing a laudatory critic. I bought the relevant issue of the<em> Cahiers du Cinéma</em> later on, to read the piece: they called it “revolutionary, the ambassador of a new New Wave”, and praised the “controlled artificiality” and the “formalist approach to the core themes”.</p><p>So I suppose that is where we stand now. After a while I decided there was nothing more I could do, and left before I fell asleep (I don’t mean to insult your brother’s work, of course, you know how I respect everything he does for us, but the movie is<em> eight hours long</em>). No one in that theater was a volunteer, that much was clear: they were only enjoying the movie for what it was about, on a surface level.</p><p>I’m greatly puzzled by this. I’m very glad Gustav’s work gets recognition beyond our small network, but to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure it is such a good idea that outdated coded films should circulate this freely around the world. Say someone who can decode chanced upon it and deduced from the viewing that they should urgently retrieve the sugar bowl from the western pond of the Louvre’s pyramid. Not only would they be six months late to the task, but they would also run the risk of getting bitten by the Gluttonous Goldfish Gregor has planted there since to assault potential enemies.</p><p>What I’m saying, in short, is that I wonder if globalization is a model suited to our purposes, and whether our art is truly meant to be seen by everyone. It’s probably something we should discuss in the next council. That being said, those spectators looked particularly pleased – and nothing delights the soul like pleased Frenchmen – it is indeed so rare a sight that it must be somewhat cherished.</p><p>R., Duchess of Winnipeg”</p><p> </p><p>The hands then present us with a Japanese newspaper article entitled “Scandal in Osaka: the Famous Benshi Was A Fraud!” This seems to come from a sensationalist publication, if the constant exclamation marks are anything to go by, but the events that transpired can be reconstructed as follow.</p><p>A commotion took place at a projection of <em>The Downfall of Osen</em>, a movie that, being silent, is normally narrated by a benshi. In that particular case, Midori Sawato was suppose to act as the narrator, which was something of an event, Sawato being a great star in her field and something of an historical figure. But the article underlines that the audience was greatly puzzled when she showed up at the theater in a large trench coat, face hidden by two scarfs, dark glasses and a hat, and refused to take anything out despite it being more than a hundred degrees outside, which is a common occurrence in the heart of summer in Osaka.</p><p>The movie started, and she then began to improvise the dialog, which was expected: nevertheless, her choices proved to be completely incoherent with the story of love and sacrifice that was being told. One viewer reports for instance that, during the famous scene when Osen takes the paper crane out of her kimono and blows on it so that it flies to Sokichi as a goodbye present, Sawato utterly failed to convey the emotion of the moment (something she’s usually extremely good at) for she launched into a theoretical discussion on the uses of paper crane to communicate secret messages, and the significance of the part of the crane one uses to write in their interpretation. It is also pointed out that, on several occasions, she didn’t read what was written on screen at all, but improvised something utterly different and rather nonsensical.</p><p>Not long after the crane scene, and after viewers had begun to throw various items in her direction, her hat fell off, reveling an absence of hair and it was soon determined that this person was not, in fact, Midori Sawato, and wasn’t a benshi at all. Unfortunately, the impostor managed to escape the premise before the police could be called, and Sawato was later discovered safely asleep in her dressing room, having been fed moshis laced with a powerful but harmless sleeping syrup. The impersonator was never identified, and the local authorities declared themselves entirely puzzled by the whole incident.</p><p>A handwritten note has been added at the bottom of the article. It reads:</p><p>“Hiro says he’s sorry, his Japanese was quite rusty and he lacked time to work on his Various Finery Disguise, having been poisoned earlier in the day by what was either a clever move by one of our local enemies, or a badly cooked fugu (and potentially both). The message was correctly delivered to our agent, and the mission in Osaka is a success: the Caliban fortune should be safe – for now.</p><p>J.”</p><p> </p><p>The last item submitted by the hands – and we notice then, as the left one turns slightly up, that the inside of its thumb is purple with ink, as if it had been giving fingerprints for some sort of official document, like a travel pass or a fake passport – is a report from a certain G. about a potential new branch of VFD developing in India.</p><p>The report is very confused, but it seems that an agent was sent to Mumbai to determine toward which side of the Schism this local movement was tending. If I may, I’d say that in that particular case it is clear that the organization’s authorities lost the plot, a phrase which here means they appear to have no real knowledge of India’s political and cultural history, and that no volunteer was sufficiently proficient in any of the 120 main spoken languages to learn anything useful there. As it is, G. mainly tells of her attempts to attend coded movie projections, and shares her notes on the subject, which are less than illuminating. It is a mess of questions marks and hasty sketches: she writes that she couldn’t recognize any traditional signal, that bells were constantly present but so integrated to the movie’s soundtrack that she couldn’t follow, and even if she had managed it wouldn’t have helped much since she couldn’t understand the dialog either.</p><p>It is probably pointless to reproduce the entirety of this document here, but a short selection might be useful to reflect on some of the short-comings of international missions, which is apparently the hands’ opinion too, since they wriggle nervously next to the page during the whole time this is being filmed:</p><p>‘Why so many dance numbers?’, ‘They are dancing again’, ‘Why are they still dancing???? Is it code??”, ‘I tried color decoding, but it didn’t make sense, too many colors’, ‘bells again, but along drums and something woody and long that looks a bit like a guitar? I don’t know’, ‘time code might work but I’m so submarine-lagged, I’ll probably get it wrong’, ‘I’m not sure I understood the plot, but this is still somehow riveting’, ‘I’m crying now and I don’t even know why’.</p><p>In the end, the hands take the report away from the frame in embarrassment, which seems to conclude the yearly report. A second before the image fades to black though, the right hand briefly turns to the camera, as if on a whim, and we are able to see that all its fingertips have also been inked for the taking of prints. After that they exit the frame, and the room disappears.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>CUT.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greed_(1924_film)">Greed</a> is a 1924 movie whose original, <i>eight hours long</i> version, was famously lost. Apparently, the (shorter) released version was such a spectacular failure it could easily have been made by Gustav Sebald.</p><p><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benshi">Benshis</a> traditionally narrated silent movies in Japan: their work was so popular it actually slowed down sound introduction in Japanese movies. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Midori_Sawato">Midori Sawato</a> is one of the last active benshi.<br/><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LTAl71CW_9o">The Downfall of Osen</a> is a 1935 Japanese silent movie (for the crane scene, check from 1.18.00 to 1.19.00)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Item n°8: Subtitles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>INT./EXT. DAY</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The shot is angled so that we only see part of a man’s coat, a winter coat but not a particularly good one: muddy brown, striped. And hands again, the man’s hands. He must be cold. That’s probably why he’s holding a lighter.</p><p>He has trouble lighting it – that’s not easily done with cold, numb fingers –, and each time his thumb presses the spark wheel, it makes a sound like paper being torn off, like autumn leaves being crushed under the sole of a boot, like the needle of a record-player finally making contact with the groove of a disc.</p><p>When at last the flame is burning bright, he brings the candle he’s holding in his other hand to it. It’s the candle that goes to the flame, until the wick catches fire too, and not the other way around. We hear him exhale.</p><p>With a sense of urgency, the candle is cradled between his hands, shielded from the wind, and where is that man standing? It’s hard to make sense of this background, with only stones, water and wind beyond his inadequate winter coat.</p><p>The moment he starts to walk, heading for the left side of the frame, is the moment the voice starts to speak over the images.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a voice we can recognize, for we heard it before, reels and reels ago: it was younger and lighter then, oh barely, but already cynical. It swears awfully as a reintroduction, but we’re busy noticing that man seems to walk with difficulty. He’s wounded, perhaps, or simply dizzy, and the candle in his hands seems too heavy, as heavy as the world and all its troubles. Oblivious to his sufferings, Olaf Bukowski speaks to us.</p><p>I say ‘to us’, but that’s a half-truth. For you have to understand Polish to know he’s addressing you, the viewer, the presence behind the screen, and as I stand in the projection room, archiving this entry, I have to wonder if anyone before me was ever able to properly hear the call. I’m afraid my Polish has aged poorly: I so rarely have use for it. But what is being said should be reproduced, at least in spirit. It is important.</p><p>The voice says, monotonously, that they asked him to say whatever came to mind over the images they had shot, in Polish, so that they had an excuse to add subtitles that have nothing to do with his words or the damned images, and everything to do with their precious secrets.</p><p>I haven’t mentioned the subtitles yet – I’m afraid this entry is becoming rather messy, but imagine them, white words over the muddy grays and browns of the shot. For some reason, they are in Italian, and of course they don’t match with what the voice is saying at all. Instead, they seem to be advertising an upcoming opera production.</p><p>I don’t think the voice knows what the subtitles are, I don’t think the voice cares. Perhaps it should care. But they obviously came in after the images, after the candle and the lighter, and how could he have known.</p><p> </p><p>Meanwhile, the man is still walking, still trying to protect his candle from the clouds of mist that sometimes cross the frame. It is unclear whether this should be considered an interior or an exterior shot: in effect, this is both, and wet echoes reverberate on the ruined stone walls as he steps slowly into puddles. The general effect, ironically, is vaguely Italian.</p><p>We only see his profile now, his left one, as he progresses toward the left border of the frame. But of course, the camera follows him, and what he’s so desperate to reach is always, always pushed away from him by the moving image.</p><p>The voice says the movie is meant to be so boring that no one in their right mind would ever consider staying until the end. That, regardless, he suspects it’s another one of those things, to make you feel you don’t deserve their art: the images screaming at you that <em>you’re not getting it you’re not getting it you’re not getting it</em>.</p><p>In the frame, the wind raises and the man has to turn upon himself, to walk backward to continue on protecting the flame. Under the voice’s monotonous words, we hear him breathe, feel his effort in the very human noises he’s making, a sigh, a whine.</p><p>The voice repeats that they just asked him to talk, to say anything as long as it was in Polish, whatever you like, Olaf, because they needed something inscrutable, Gustav said ‘inscrutable’, and no one understands Polish, really – the voice says ‘not even me’. He can say the words, yes, but how can you pretend to understand anything when no one around you remembers.</p><p>A step too fast, and suddenly the flame goes out. The man freezes. I think… I think we’re lucky we’re only seeing half of his face. And the voice is saying that in Poland they were hunted and killed, his family, but they used to be something noble, viscounts or baronets, something grand, before they had to flee. And now they’re just asking him to speak Polish over a microphone so that no one will be able to listen.</p><p>Slowly, painfully, we see the man turn back and retrace his steps until he reaches his starting point. He touches the wall that marks the limit of his path, on the right side of the frame, touches it like it matters: otherwise the attempt wouldn’t count and he wouldn’t be playing by the rules. Then he relights the candle, and tries again.</p><p> </p><p>The voice says that his parents never should have let them tattoo him, that it was a disgrace, but no one seemed to realize, no one seemed to mind, and no one spoke Polish at all, which was just as well because sometimes it’s convenient to be able to tell people that you would rather watch them burn. Or maybe not that. But something close. Though right now he wonders because the girl, the one who’s filming, looks at him like she knows. It’s not about the language and the memory and the nobility of his ancestors, no. It’s just that – and why has Kit never been able to do that, Kit or even fucking Lemony or any of his so-called friends – if someone watch you closely enough, watch your face when you say those things, they should be able to <em>see</em>. And the girl, she’s watching him now, as he speaks in the shabby studio of the Academy, behind the glass panel, while the others are too busy plotting about those damned subtitles that are so damned important, because it’s always about codes here, learning them, understanding them.</p><p>This time, the man use his winter coat's lapel to protect the candle from the wind. We barely see the flame behind his thumb, and it seems to be coming out of his fingers, not necessarily like he was burning, but maybe as if he was busy summoning the fire from within.</p><p>The subtitles invite us, over and over again, to attend <em>La Forza del Destino</em>, at the City’s Opera next week. It states that we “will be surprised by what we see”. That “the staging will be cutting-edge”. And that perhaps some people, with particular sensibilities, won’t fully recover from the experience.</p><p>The candle goes out again. The man goes back to his starting point. He touches the wall. He starts again.</p><p> </p><p>The voice says it’s going to leave, as soon as this movie’s done. Those people hate him and he hates them, and though he barely understands the language himself, the language matters. He’s tired of following their rules, of standing where he’s asked to stand, of talking when he’s asked to talk nonsense – because, don’t you know it? ‘Olaf always talks nonsense, he’s barely <em>literate’</em>. He’s going to leave and then, they’re going to see.</p><p>The man is breathing heavily. He’s in deep pain. His whole body is tensed toward his goal, he grunts, exhales, and finally, finally the frame stops moving as he reaches a wall, the wall he was headed to from the start and that he can finally touch. He places his candle there, still protecting it with his hands, reaching out as if in prayer, with his last forces, to make sure the candle is safe. And then…</p><p>The subtitles wink at us and say there is no poison more violent than the fires of passion.</p><p>And then he dies.</p><p> </p><p><em>CUT</em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter was modeled on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O3Dp6EdFRHo">the last scene of the movie Nostalghia, by Andrei Tarkovsky</a>. As Olaf says, it's not the most easy thing to watch. But I don't know. There's something there that always manages to move me.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Item n°9: Fade-out (followed by Concluding Remarks)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>EXT. NIGHT</em>
</p><p> </p><p>We open on a bedroom. But it is not the same bedroom as last time. This one is standard, impersonal. The kind of room in which you hide. A hotel room. At first, we barely see it: we are carried around in great haste, in a haze of blurred colors, and for once the hand that holds us doesn’t tremble under the weight.</p><p>When the image finally forms, it is incomprehensible. In front of us, its lens shiny from the light of the dusty pink ceiling lamp, is an old camera. After a moment of shock, we realize we are faced with the reflection of the filming device in a large mirror. It also shows the back of the room: blank walls on which the white paint is peeling, a small iron bed, a desk, a tired suitcase spewing out a few clothes and a large quantity of round metal cases and film reels. In the background, the distant notes of a tired phonograph. It’s playing something that could be by Marlene Dietrich, something old and famous, perhaps <em>S</em><em>ag </em><em>M</em><em>ir </em><em>W</em><em>o </em><em>D</em><em>ie </em><em>B</em><em>lumen </em><em>S</em><em>ind</em>, perhaps <em>Lili Marleen</em>. I wish I knew.</p><p>Someone is hurrying off-screen, moving papers around and breathing quite anxiously. We hear the laths of the parquet creak, and suddenly the woman with the almond-shaped eyes enters the frame. She’s progressing on her hands and knees, examining the floor minutely, until she manages to locate a lath that gives out a hollow sound when probed. Quickly, she rummages in her suitcase, takes out a screwdriver and then begins to gather the numerous cases. Gliding the end of the tool between lathes, she fiddles until she’s able to lift it. Several laths are put away, and one by one, the reels of film are placed in the cache, slightly jingling as metal meets metal. When the turn of the last case comes, the woman with the almond-shaped eyes brings it to her lips, and kisses it lightly. Then she abandons it with the others, the laths are put back in place, and she goes to zip her suitcase.</p><p>Something is ending. We can’t ignore it, as she finally stands up, and takes a few steps in the direction of the mirror until she’s in the center of the frame, right behind the camera. Time must have passed, since the last time we saw her, for she seems older, definitely older. Seconds tick away, the song goes on in the distance. She looks at her reflection pensively. She is waiting for something, and watching herself wait for it.</p><p>And then, loud knocks blast out in the background. There is someone at the door. But no call, no question.</p><p>Bang. Bang.</p><p>This is the way you knock when you don’t expect the person inside to open, for you know you’ll eventually get in, one way or another. The blows are announcing it. They are meant to terrify. Meant to make the person on the other side panic and hide under the bed, so that when you finally loose patience and break in, you’ll still have a bit of fun.</p><p>For the briefest moment, the woman smiles a half-smile to the mirror, as if welcoming the terror. Then, swinging into action, she turns the camera to her, grabs her suitcase, pauses as the knocks resume, louder, drowning the quiet song of the phonograph, and smiles again. This is when she says it.</p><p>“Alright, Ms Sebald,”</p><p>
  <em>her lips are moving, she’s whispering and it’s her voice, barely there but amused and sad, the saddest voice in the world, her voice saying: </em>
</p><p>“I’m ready for my close-up.”</p><p>She takes a step in our direction. Then another one. And another one. Her face gets closer and closer until she is so close that she’s not there anymore, fleeing out of the frame. We hear a window opening, the sound of someone jumping and landing on a metal staircase, possibly. I think she begins to run, then. I hope she does.</p><p>After that, the door is smashed open, the camera is knocked off, and the image turns black.</p><p> </p><p><em>CUT</em>.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Concluding Remarks:</b>
</p><p>
  <em>She’s gone. To this day, no one knows what happened to Sally Sebald, or where she might be.</em>
</p><p><em>And I can’t help but think of everything that is lost for good: what of </em> The Mountains Eagles <em>, her suspenseful thriller about murderous birds? What of </em> The Aviator <em>, a documentary on the life of Josephine Anwhistle? What of </em> Evidence, The Time, The Place and the Girl, Song of the Flame, We Accuse <em>? Is it possible that they are still waiting for us, hidden under old boards in a lonely hotel room, entrusted to time? I wish I could believe it. But most likely, everything went out in flames.</em></p><p>
  <em>Finishing this entry, I’m glad the fund exists, and I hope it will defy oblivion for as long as anything can be expected to. For as I stand in the middle of the Lost Films Room, quite alone in the subdued light at this late hour, with my code textbook and my spyglass, I realize I want to see through her eyes again, and to see her look back at me.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All the movies referenced in the concluding remarks are <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_lost_films">actual lost movies</a> (who would have thought so many of them would have such VFD-sounding titles?)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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